i thought i saw the devil this morning, looking in the mirror
by only-more-love
Summary: Brief, Flynn-focused tag for episode 1x16.


**Summary:** Brief, Flynn-focused tag for episode 1x16.

 **Note:** The title comes from a line in Jaymes Young's _I'll Be Good_.

* * *

 **i thought i saw the devil this morning, looking in the mirror**

The Department of Homeland Security officers dragged Garcia to a large, black van and thrust him, face-first, against the side. The metal was hot under his cheek, but he didn't care, welcoming the sting of pain. His hands had been cuffed when they'd snatched him up in front of treacherous Lucy and Agent Christopher. Two men held his shoulders; one man uncuffed his wrists. He might have a chance to fight back…

As soon as his wrists were uncuffed, Garcia was turned around and pressed back against the van. In all, six men surrounded him, four of them wielding assault rifles. He might be half-crazy, but he was all too aware that he was no superhero. The odds weren't in his favor. Though his mind zigzagged with thoughts of escape, his eyes couldn't find a viable route to freedom. When both his wrists were wrenched up, this time in front of him, he didn't protest.

After they re-cuffed his wrists, they pushed and pulled him into the back of the van, shoving his head down at the last minute, so it wouldn't hit the door frame. Sadly, this prevented him from using his head as a battering ram against the nose of the officer closest to him. Too bad; his wounded pride could have used the satisfying crunch of fracturing nasal bones and the accompanying gush of crimson blood. Now, an officer pushed him down into a vinyl seat and fastened a seat belt tight across his shoulder and hips. Then he wound a set of cuffs around both of Garcia's ankles. A thick metal chain hung between the ankle cuffs, and this was hooked into a steel loop bolted into the van's floor.

He was trapped, Garcia conceded silently. The last thing he saw before a thick blindfold was pulled over his eyes, was three rifle-carrying Homeland Security officers seated across from him and one to his left.

Even when he blinked and strained to see, the darkness was all-encompassing. With his eyes thus covered and his hands and feet wholly restrained, Garcia's mind turned inward.

He had waged a holy war; like all zealots, he had burned, incandescent with his knowledge that the end would justify the means.

So close. He'd been so close to getting his family back. One final mission, and he would have been able to rest, knowing that they were back in the world. He would still have been alone, but he would gladly have worn the albatross of solitude around his neck as long as his loves lived again.

 _"Once I get my family back, I never want to see that machine again."_

 _"I'm sorry!"_

Words echoed in Garcia's head, those he spoke and would now live (die?) to regret, and those shaped by Lucy's soft, traitorous mouth. Of course, he'd never kissed her, but her lips had looked soft. He'd wanted to kiss her, so many times, the need to steal her breath and make it his own a constant burn in his stomach and an incessant itch in his fingers. How he had missed the union of warm skin against his own; how he had hungered for it, with no hope of being fed.

Perhaps a line could be drawn from those betrayals in his mind and heart to Lucy's ultimate betrayal. Perhaps he deserved exactly this fate for having broken faith with his wife.

 _Oh, Lorena. I'm sorry._

Oceans of blood spilled. His girls', first. Others' after, innocent and guilty alike, all in service to his cause. His own weak and faithless hands had held the gun, until a peaceful night's sleep remained as distant a memory as the phantom press of small, sticky fingers to his cheeks.

 _"Tell me another story, Papa. Just one more."_

 _"I'll always protect you."_

 _Iris…My darlings, I have failed you both. Again._

If this was to be his end—their end—had his means been justified after all?

Someone coughed and shifted, fabric rustling. The van seat clearly hadn't been built for comfort, and Garcia's back ached from being pressed so tightly to the hard surface. Every small bump in the road jostled him from his head to his toes, and he sighed. He inhaled deeply—then promptly wished that he hadn't, as the stench of stale sweat filled his nostrils.

* * *

"Face this way, prisoner," a voice barked, as they processed him. Garcia did as ordered, not blinking as the flash fired. The camera captured his unsmiling face.

"Turn to your left."

"Now turn to your right."

Calloused and unpleasantly moist hands gripped his own, one after the other; touched them to ink; rolled them against cool paper, a mockery of intimacy he would have shrunk from if he could.

The same hands grasped the fourth finger of his left hand. "What are you doing?" Garcia asked, his voice like sandpaper to his own ears.

"All personal belongings must be surrendered now, Prisoner GB95432. That includes your ring."

"No." He stiffened, energy coiling in his muscles.

"What did you say, buddy?"

"I said, 'No."' The words came out deceptively calm.

When another guard reached for him, Garcia roared and twisted sharply, ramming him with his shoulder. A Taser crackled an instant before it sizzled against him. His muscles froze in response to the electric current racing through his body. The current faded, but the blows began. A baton cracked along his shoulder. Booted feet kicked him in the ribs.

 _Forgive me, Lorena, for I have sinned…_

As darkness bled into the edges of his vision, Garcia smiled.


End file.
